Xenolith
by Frost Deejn
Summary: The Las Vegas CSIs investigate the death of a renowned jeweler during a robbery. Meanwhile, in San Francisco a murder bearing the signature of a serial killer who vanished almost a decade ago brings Sara back to her old life.
1. Hic et Ubique

Disclaimer: CSI is not mine. You can tell because Sara is gone. Ah, but this is the world of fanfiction, and I will BRING HER BACK!

Author's note: If anyone's wondering what song by The Who I would choose as the theme for _CSI: San Francisco_, it's "I Don't Even Know Myself." (Though "Borris the Spider" was tempting.)

Xenolith

Chapter 1: Hic et Ubique

San Francisco's famed fog cloaked the morning in blue satin. The beach seemed dull brown in its light. The waves rolling over the shore sounded strangely distorted and loud, like they were the only sound in the entire lonely world.

Lisandra Wong jogged along this dull brown beach this blue-grey San Francisco morning. "Come on, Artemis, keep up!"

Her dog, a small, curly-haired mutt, barked and scampered to her side.

"Ten more minutes," Lisandra promised herself as much as her dog.

A break in the fog afforded a view of the ocean. She gazed at it as she ran. Then she tripped.

"Ow!" She sat down and rubbed her knee where it had connected with the sand. She noticed a black smudge on her ankle, and the smells of smoke and gasoline mingling with the damp air. She looked at what she'd tripped over. "This is weird." She poked at the pile of greasy black ashes. She had no idea what it was, until she a blackened bone protruding from it. Then Lisandra screamed.

* * *

The phone on Gilbert Grissom's desk rang, interrupting his paperwork. He hoped, as he always did when the phone rang, that it would be _her_. But rationally he knew it wasn't. She hadn't called in weeks. He braced himself for the inevitable disappointment before checking the caller ID. What he read there perplexed him. San Francisco CSI Director? Why? He picked up the phone. "Grissom," he said.

"Dr. Grissom. It's been a long time." The voice was soft, yet forceful, and sweetly accented. Exactly as he remembered it.

"Dr. Murphy...what can I do for you?"

"Eight years ago you borrowed something from me and never gave it back. I'd like her returned for a little while."

The words felt like ice water flowing over him. He decided to avoid telling her he'd lost the precious thing he'd stolen from the San Francisco CSI lab. "Why?" he asked.

"MEC is back."

"MEC?"

"Just tell her that. Sara will know what it means."

He couldn't avoid telling her. "Sara...doesn't work here anymore."

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. "What?"

"She...left."

"Where can I reach her now?"

Grissom sighed. "I don't know. I haven't been in touch with her for a while." For seven weeks, one day, and 19 hours, to be specific.

"So you took my Sara away from me and now you've lost her? What happened?"

"I'm sorry. I'm more upset about this than you are."

"Does this have to do with the Miniature Killer?"

He closed his eyes. He should have known Murphy knew about that. From everything he'd heard about her, she had a knack for knowing about the lives of her subordinates. "The short answer is yes," he replied.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Sara was like a daughter to me. I'm sure you feel about the same."

"Pretty much." He was glad that the woman couldn't see the anguish that contorted his face at the thought of what exactly Sara was to him.

"If you hear from her, have her contact me."

"Okay," he said before hanging up.

In the dim silence of his office, Grissom sighed as he moved some of the clutter on his desk to reveal a small framed photograph of Sara.

Ever since she'd stopped calling him, there had been a lurking, nauseating fear in the back of his mind that something had happened to her. As someone who worked with death every day, he knew intimately what a dangerous place the world was, and how many terrible ways there were for someone to die. But he couldn't let himself consider that. He'd been so terrified of losing her when she was kidnapped by the Miniature Killer. The terror of that time threatened to seep into him again.

He pulled out his cellphone, and dialed her number. It had been days since the last time he'd tried.

The phone rang once. His heart jumped.

_"We're sorry. The number you have dialed has been disconnected..."_

Grissom's eyes widened in sudden fear. What had happened? Sara was gone. A sick, empty despair crept up his chest to his head and his eyes. He fought against an impulse to sob. He had to hold himself together, had to believe there was some other explanation for this. Maybe she'd realized she didn't love him anymore, and decided that cutting off communication with him would be easier than admitting that. Or maybe she'd lost her cellphone and decided not to get a new one. Maybe she was traveling in a foreign country and decided to have some time to herself. Anything, _anything_ but that she was dead.

* * *

Rain rippled down the window of a cafe in New York City. A woman with dark hair and pale skin watched it. She had the kind of face that could be plain one moment, but was only a smile or a shift of light away from being stunningly beautiful. She didn't look beautiful now. She looked tired, weary, with a haunted sadness in her eyes.

She turned back to her computer screen. Her eyes widened and the sadness flew away as she read a brief paragraph in the San Francisco news section:

"Charred remains found on beach. Police have no comment on whether the woman was victim of the MEC Killer, who murdered four in the area in 1999."

The woman looked back at the window. San Francisco. Was she ready to go back there, so soon after confronting her mother, and her past?

There were more memories for her in San Francisco than that.

That was a long time ago. And wasn't she trying to get away from it all, to distance herself from everything in her former life? She was trying to bury her ghosts, and that case was definitely one of her ghosts. On the other hand, it wasn't like running away seemed to be helping. She hadn't counted on how alone she would feel. It was like the Latin proverb: _caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt_. Running away changes your scenery, not your soul.

She was attempting to sort things out. What she really wanted to do with her life, if she could ever be a CSI again, why her life had taken the course it had, and her feelings for Grissom. She knew she loved him more than anything else in the world, and she had an acolyte's devotion to him as a boss; she just needed to figure out where one ended and the other began. She had been so obsessed with him for so long that she was afraid she didn't know who she was without him. That was why she had been putting off calling him. One of the reasons.

This wasn't the first time she'd left everything behind to begin anew, but it was different. When she went to college, there was nothing she cared about to leave behind, and she'd been surrounded by people who had all suddenly transitioned from the familiar to a new world. Somehow, it helped that they were all in the same boat. It was an adventure, not a sacrifice. When she'd started her job in San Francisco, she had been nervous, and once again she was surrounded by strangers, but she quickly learned the ropes and gained the respect of her colleagues. When she'd moved to Vegas, she already knew someone there, and so she wasn't as completely and totally alone as she had been with the earlier transitions of her life, or the one now. In fact, there was only one time she could remember when she'd felt this totally alone and lost, and that had been when she went into foster care after her father's murder. That had been worse. Much worse.

Maybe running away wasn't a good idea. She'd been running away her entire life. Why did she think it would help her deal with her issues to get away from the real people in her life, the people who cared about her?

Maybe it was time to try something new: instead of running away, going back.

She glanced at the paper again. She was still bothered by the memory of MEC, and her failure to catch him.

A determination began to burn inside her: she no longer cared about burying her ghosts; she wanted to bury _him_.


	2. Dark Reflections

Chapter 2: Dark Reflections

Josh Straley sighed as he put away his tiny, delicate tools and his loupe and began locking up for the night. He would be coming home late, again.

He was an artist, and he loved his job. He was the head metalworker at Kaleid, a trendy jewelry shop just off the Las Vegas Strip.

The metal bars had already been pulled across the window and door for the night. As he locked up his equipment and the pieces he was working with, he paused to admire his latest creation, a delicate platinum ring. A minute later, he opened the side door and took a step into the dark alley.

He nearly ran right in to the dark figure with a ski mask. He stumbled back when he saw the gun pointing at his head.

Josh didn't even have time to scream before the gun fired.

One second, he registered pure, blind fear. Then unendurable pain. Then he was on the floor, and the last thing he saw was the thief breaking the glass on the display cases before it all faded to black.

* * *

"Do you think they have time to feel pain when they're shot in the head like that?" Greg asked David.

"Who can say. Legend had it Antoine Lavoisier blinked out a message after being guillotined," David responded.

"Morbid contemplations," Grissom said as he ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape. "What does go through one's head in the seconds between when the heart stops beating and the lack of blood shuts off the brain?"

Detective Brass joined them. "Well I don't know what went through the vic's head, but the killer had his mind on the jewels. Only a few of the cases were broken, but the owner says it was some of the best stuff."

"Where is the owner?" Grissom asked.

Brass pointed to a tall, olive-complexioned man standing outside the crime scene, where Nick was taking his fingerprints. "Michael Ayala. He insisted on coming out here as soon as he heard. The vic worked for him. Josh Straley was the master jeweler at Kaleid. Ayala just handled the business end."

Grissom nodded vaguely, then stooped down to take a closer look at the body. "No defensive wounds. The killer didn't even give him a chance to fight back."

"That's it?" Brass asked. Grissom raised his eyebrows curiously. "No witty observation, pun, or obscure quote tonight?" the detective elaborated.

Grissom looked back at the body. He loved his job, he loved solving the puzzle, discovering the truth, the eureka moment...but it was hard for anyone to look at death every day and not let it get to them. Humor was one of the ways he coped. One of the functions of humor, perhaps its evolutionary purpose, was to allow people to distance themselves from tragedy, horror, despair, sorrow...to allow them to go on fighting in a world obviously stacked against them. Tonight, though, he didn't feel like fighting. But until he knew the truth of what happened to Sara, he didn't want anyone to suspect he had lost touch with her, so he had to keep up the front of business as usual. "The thief killed him to steal his creations, his works of art. If imitation is the highest form of flattery, then what is murder, I wonder?"


	3. Confluence

Chapter 3: Confluence

As the CSIs went over the crimescene, Detective Brass interviewed Michael Ayala.

"I can't believe Josh is gone," the man said, looking dazed. "He was the greatest jewelry artist I've ever worked with. People came to him from all over the country for custom pieces. What am I going to do without him?"

"Well, Mr. Ayala, you can start by making an inventory of everything missing. I assume you document your merchandise for insurance purposes?"

"Of course. We kept photos of every item in our inventory. I can get it for you. All of our pieces are unique, so if they show up at a pawnshop I'd be able to recognize them."

"That would be great. Do you know, just to cover our bases, did Mr. Straley have any enemies? Or did you have any disgruntled employees?"

He shook his head. "No. Josh was a nice guy. Quiet, considerate. I fired an apprentice metal worker a few months ago, but last I heard he moved to Colorado. How could this happen?"

Brass looked pointedly at the CSIs. "That's the question _they're _going to answer. And then we'll find the who."

* * *

Greg dusted for prints on the broken cases while Nick photographed the entrance. "This door was locked. The thief must have been waiting in the alley for a while. There could be some evidence out here."

"You mean urine," Greg said, "and you mean I'm going to have to look for it since you outrank me."

"Yeah, pretty much."

"There aren't a lot of fingerprints," Greg said.

"According to the owner, he cleaned the place right before leaving, and the vic was the only one here after that."

"That's good. So anything we find that isn't from the owner or the victim is going to be from the killer."

"Assuming he didn't wear gloves, which he probably did."

"You never know. We could get lucky," Greg said.

"We'll have to. Robbery gone bad; depending on how smart the thief is, these cases can be tough to nail down."

* * *

The sun had just risen when Grissom rang the doorbell of the victim's house. Josh Straley had lived in a small but well-kept home in a quiet middle-class neighborhood.

A woman opened the door. She was plump and pretty, with short blond hair. "Hi..." she said uncertainly. She looked and sounded exhausted.

"Hi. Karen Straley?"

"Are...are you with the police?"

"I'm Gil Grissom, with the Las Vegas crime lab. We've been trying to contact you."

"I know. I just got home. I...my husband is missing. I dropped our son off at his aunt's last night and went out looking for him. Did something happen?"

It took a moment for Grissom to answer. It was always hard to break news like this to family, but with his recent concerns about Sara, informing the woman that she had just become a widow would be especially difficult. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Straley. There was a robbery at your husband's shop last night. He's..."

Karen took a sharp breath. "No," she said before falling to her knees and sobbing, nearly hysterical, as tears quickly soaked her face. "No, please...Josh..."

"We'll need you to identify the body at the morgue," he said quietly.

She didn't answer. She probably didn't even hear him. With a look of painful sympathy, Grissom sat down beside her and rested his hand comfortingly on her back.

* * *

The building had changed in the past eight years, but it was still familiar enough to trigger a cascade of memories as Sara entered the front lobby of the San Francisco criminal forensics lab. She glanced around. It seemed like a lifetime ago...two lifetimes ago. But at the same time it felt like yesterday that she'd last come to work through those doors. She'd had a life here, friends, a career, all of which she left suddenly at a phone call. There had been some loose ends.

"Can I help you?"

She turned around and saw a young man--he could almost have been a teenager--short, with a round, smooth face, green eyes, and jet black hair.

"Yes. I'm here to see Supervisor Murphy."

"Supervisor Murphy?" he sounded curious. "You mean Director Nhung Murphy?"

"Director? She's been promoted?"

"Months ago," he said, still examining her like she was some misplaced object at a crime scene. "If you want, I can call her and tell her you're looking for her, Miss..."

"Sara Sidle."

Instantly the man's confusion cleared up as he recognized the name. "Sidle? I'm sorry. My name's Xi Li; most people call me Dusk. It's a pleasure to meet you. I've heard a lot about you. Please come with me."

She followed him deeper into the building.

"Murphy's not here now, but my supervisor is going to want to see you. Hotaru Aizawa."

"Hotaru?" Sara took a moment to figure out why that name sounded familiar. "You mean Hattie? Detective Hattie Jennings?"

"She stopped going by 'Hattie' after her divorce, long before I met her. Everyone calls her Hotaru now."

"She's divorced?" That surprised Sara. She'd met Detective Jennings' husband a few times. They'd been obviously in love. "So she went from being a detective to a CSI supervisor?"

"Murphy practically begged her. She's very protective of her team."

"I do remember," Sara nodded.

"Hotaru, Dashiell, and Kai talk about you sometimes."

"Dashiell's still here?" She wasn't sure why that surprised her, but it did.

The young man knocked on the supervisor's door, then cracked it open. "Hotaru? Sara Sidle is here to see you."

The tall Japanese woman behind the desk stood up. She'd grown out her wavy, dark-chocolate-colored hair to her shoulders, and spiderweb wrinkles edged her mouth and eyes. Sara wondered how different she must look to her old friend.

"Thank you, Dusk."

He flashed a smile. "I should get back to work."

"Hello Hattie," Sara said.

"Hi Sara. It's been a while."

"Yeah it has." She smiled wistfully. "So Murphy's the lab director now? And you're swing shift supervisor? I step out for a decade and everything goes topsy-turvy on me. What else has changed?"

"Other than Dashiell, Kai, and Dr. Grahn, I think everyone who worked with you has moved on. Daniel took a job offer in Seattle, Marita quit when she got married and had a baby, Doug and Ruth retired, and Stirling...he was killed in the line of duty a couple of years after you left."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Sara hadn't been close to most of her coworkers. She'd kept them at a distance, terrified of revealing her past, or of becoming too attached to them. Murphy had been fond of her, and made several efforts to reach out to her, but Sara never thought of her old boss as anything but a boss. She and Hattie had been the kind of friends who would go out for drinks after work on occasion, but Hattie was a detective, married, and extremely popular. In other words, she and Sara had occupied entirely different worlds. Then there was Dashiell. That was complicated.

It was strange to think that the old team was almost entirely gone. They were like a photograph in her memory, whole and unchanging.

Even when she was considering leaving Vegas, she knew she'd never return to San Francisco. But now here she was.

"I'm guessing you heard about the murder matching MEC's signature," Hotaru said.

"Yes," Sara confirmed. "I hope the news was just trying to sensationalize it. I mean...nine years; serial killers don't usually just stop, just take a break for a decade or so. His MO hasn't shown up anywhere in the country. I've been watching."

"You and me both." Hotaru had also worked the original MEC cases. "Who knows where he's been the past decade. Out of the country, maybe. If he'd been in prison, his DNA should have been flagged." She took crime scene photos out of a folder and laid them out on the desk. "We found her body on the beach, burned. We IDed her through her dental records: Selena Bristol, 23, a student at Berkeley. Dr. Grahn confirmed her body had been cut before burning. It looks like the real thing, Sara. The body's in the morgue now, if you want to take a look at it. You're most likely to tell if it's a copycat."

Sara nodded. It was time to face a part of her past she'd hoped was really over.


	4. Cold Echoes

Chapter 4: Cold Echoes

"Hey Catherine," Warrick greeted her as she entered the room where he was examining photographs of shoe prints. "What's up?"

"I just got back from a gas station hold-up. What are you doing?"

"Nick and Greg found some shoeprints at the jewelry shop robbery that seem to belong to the killer. There's something weird about this guy's walk."

"Really? What?"

"I'm not sure. A limp, maybe. The shoe tread was too worn to identify a brand, and nothing looks off about the wear pattern, but something here is definitely not adding up."

Catherine leaned over the table to look at the photos. "Have you seen Grissom today? He looks a little upset."

"Yeah, he broke the news to the victim's widow this morning. I think it was hard on him."

"Is there something about the case that's getting to him?"

"I don't know if it's the case. He hasn't been his old self since you-know-who left."

Catherine nodded. "Nothings been the same since she switched to day shift. Think Sara knows what she did to the team by leaving?"

"I think she does, but I know what it's like to have to walk away, figure out your own head. The weird thing is, when I first met her eight years ago, she was here to investigate me. Maybe because of that, for a long time I didn't like her. Now I can't get used to her being gone. Like there's a part of us missing."

"I know. I didn't always get along with her either, but I miss her. And I miss Gil." She straightened up. "Well, we'd better get back to work."

Warrick shifted his focus back to the shoe prints. "Yeah."

* * *

"This is as good an image as we're gonna get," Archie said of the black-and-white video on the screen in front of him. "The security camera has good resolution, but it was too dark to pick up much."

"Play it again, Archie," Grissom said.

The video showed the robber enter the room, shoot Straley, break a few display cases, pack the contents into a small black bag, stoop down next to the body for a second, and run out. The robber was wearing loose black clothing, gloves, and a ski mask.

Grissom sighed. "Find some good stills. We might at least be able to figure out how tall the killer was."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks."

* * *

Grissom found Michael Ayala waiting in the hallway outside his office. "Hi."

"Hello. Um...I brought photographs of all the jewelry that was stolen."

"Thanks. Come on into my office."

The tall man followed him in, glancing around nervously at the oddities on his shelves before handing a folder to Grissom. "There are thirty-three stolen items in all: eleven rings, eight necklaces, five bracelets, four wristwatches, four pairs of earrings, and a ruby-studded platinum navel ring."

"You're kidding."

"Custom order for a dancer. Their total worth is over two-hundred thousand dollars."

Grissom thumbed through the photographs. "Josh's widow also noticed his wedding band missing. Did he wear it at work?"

"He never took it off. Yellow gold in a grapevine pattern with five emeralds set in the interstices. He designed it himself. I'm sure his wife would like to have it back." He sighed. "What kind of...sick bastard steals a wedding ring off a man he just shot?"

"The kind of sick bastard who would shoot a man in the first place," Grissom answered. "I'm sure you understand that our priority is finding Josh Straley's killer, not the jewels."

"Of course I do," Ayala spat before standing up and leaving the room.

* * *

Sara and Hotaru entered the morgue. "Hello Dr. Grahn."

The chief medical examiner turned toward the familiar but unexpected voice. The ashen grey hairs that had only been peeking at his temples the last time Sara saw him had entirely replaced the sandy blond she remembered.

"Sara Sidle...I wondered if you would ever brighten my day again."

She smiled. "I've missed you. How have you been doing?"

"Wonderfully, thank you." He paused. "Until I saw the latest body on my table. I felt like I'd gone back in time."

The room suddenly felt colder, and Sara could tell by the medical examiner's tone of voice that he felt it, too. He'd seen a lot of deaths, but the charred, mutilated corpses of MEC's victims were unusual horrific.

"You did the autopsy on the possible new victim?" she inquired, her voice subdued.

"Yes."

"What do you think? Is our guy back?"

"I'm afraid...that's what it looks like. The pattern of the mutilations was never released to the public. You can take a look at it, if you don't mind." He waited for Sara to nod somberly, then he pulled out the slab that contained the burned remains.

Sara looked over the blackened corpse. "Multiple, precise cut marks all over the body."

Dr. Grahn nodded. "The way she burned indicates that there was almost no blood left in her body by that time."

"She was covered with gasoline and ignited on the beach," Hotaru said.

"The other victims were burned before being dumped," Sara recalled. "Maybe he hasn't found a new hideout with an industrial size oven."

"Except for the change in location, same pattern. Gasoline poured over the body, and in the mouth and wounds."

"Mutilate. Exsanguinate. Cremate," Dr. Grahn concluded. "MEC."

Hotaru nodded. "If this is a copycat, it's a good one."

Sara shuddered. The other two looked at her with concern, but she suppressed the memories and went back to the body. "The throat," she said, looking at the deep cut visible even after the burning.

"And there were blade marks on both hip bones, just like the others," Dr. Grahn confirmed. "The flesh was too burned to tell if the stomach was cut, but there were also blade marks on her jaw and teeth, proving he stabbed her cheeks."

"It's him," Sara confirmed. She was as convinced by the feel she got in looking at the body as she was by the details of the MO that were never released to the public. It _felt _the same.

"Are you going to be okay with this case?" Hotaru asked.

Sara turned to her. "Let me put it this way: I'm going to do whatever I can to make sure this is his last victim."

* * *


	5. Regrets

Chapter 5: Regrets

The break room at the San Francisco criminal forensics lab had a large window that framed an expansive view of the city, dull now under the light of the yellow pellucid sunset sky.

Kai Weaver leaned against the counter to look out the window as he munched on crackers between gulps of Diet Coke. "The autopsy report says the knife MEC's using is the same kind that he used before. Probably the same knife."

"I doubt it," said Dashiell Smith, who was sitting at the table slowly eating a tuna sandwich. "It would get dull hitting against bone. And why would he hang on to the knife for nine years?"

"Still think this is a copycat?"

Dashiell shook his head so unemphatically that it clearly indicated an "I don't know" rather than a "no."

"MEC was one sick son of a bitch. I think we were all kind of hoping Sara killed him. Have you seen her yet?" Kai asked.

"No," Dashiell said.

Kai looked back at the other CSI. "You don't sound happy that she's back."

Dashiell tilted his head slightly as he thought through ways he could answer that. "It couldn't be under worse circumstances. Just thinking about what the MEC case did to her..."

"I know," Kai replied. "It was a gruesome case, but for Sara..." His eyes focused on the break room door. "Speak of the devil."

"I wouldn't call her that," said Hotaru, who entered the room a step in front of Sara.

Kai smiled. "Welcome home, Miss Sidle. Or are you 'Mrs.' something now? It's been a while."

"'Sidle' still. It hasn't been that long," Sara said with a small forced laugh. Her tone was slightly softer, completely unintentionally, when she added, "Hello Dash."

"Hi Sara." Dashiell responded, as casually as if they'd seen each other yesterday.

"We were just about to find Dusk and Glory but thought we'd have a little reunion first," Hotaru said jocularly.

"Well it's nice to see you again, even if it is because of something so awful," Kai said.

"Speaking of, I need to get back to work," Dashiell said. He paused next to Sara as he walked out the door. "I'll catch up with you later."

"Right." She watched him as he retreated down the hall. She was going to have some explaining to do.

* * *

Grissom was sitting in his office thoughtfully. He missed Sara the way he imagined a suffocation victim missed oxygen. Where could she be? It hadn't been as bad when he was still in touch with her. Then he at least still had her, even if it was just her voice, a couple of times a week. But now she was gone, so gone. And he felt like he was the one who was lost.

"Hey boss?"

He jumped slightly at Hodges' irritating voice. "What is it, Hodges?"

"I ran a chemical analysis on some mud Greg found in the killer's boot print in the Straley case. It had a high concentration of nitrates, phosphates, ammonia, and uric acid. In a word: guano."

He was almost grateful for the distraction from his worries. "Guano is used as a fertilizer. The killer might have come from a farm."

"I could be wrong, but I don't think there are many farms in that part of Vegas. There was also a pebble in the mud that I managed to identify as basalt. A lesser researcher might have left it at that, but I took the time and effort to confirm that the basalt rock is not naturally occurring in Las Vegas or the surrounding area, so it must be imported."

Grissom was no longer even almost grateful for Hodges' interruption. "Great. Take it to Nick and Greg."

"Right away boss."

* * *

"Any luck?" Nick asked when Greg walked in the lab.

"Nada," he said in exasperation. "I feel like I've been to every pawnshop in the city. No sign of the missing jewels."

"That's weird. Thieves usually like to unload the goods as soon as possible."

"Did you find anything?" Greg inquired.

"You know that trace of mud you found in the boot print in the alley?"

"Yeah."

"Hodges says it has a high content of guano, and traces of basalt. The killer had to have picked that up pretty close to the crime scene."

"I get the feeling this is going to end up with me doing more legwork."

Nick smiled apologetically and nodded.

* * *

Sara and Hotaru approached the room where they would find the head CSI on the MEC case. The door was open, and they heard voices.

"Wasn't it Chaucer who said 'Murder will out'." Sara recognized the voice as the young man she'd met earlier.

"Probably, but we both know how not true that is." This was a woman's voice.

"You're the one who said he'd never escape it."

"And he won't. Not if I can help it."

They walked in to see two people leaning over a city map spread out on the table. The woman was holding a red marker over the map. Her hair was light brown and frizzled, and pulled back into a careless braid. She had small black-rimmed glasses and sharp petulant features, and reminded Sara of a librarian.

The two CSIs looked up when Sara and Hotaru entered the room.

"Sara," Hotaru said, "you've met Dusk Li, and this is Glory Frankenfield."

"Hi. I'm Sara Sidle." She extended her hand.

The woman shifted the marker to her other hand before shaking it. "I've heard a lot about you," she said crisply. "When I first came to work here, Murphy kept comparing me to you."

Sara noticed a small purple-blue tattoo on Glory's right hand next to her thumb. It took her a moment to figure out what it was: a Rubin vase.

"I think I've heard of you, too. You wrote a couple of articles for _The American Journal of Criminal Behavior_, right?"

"That's me," she confirmed matter-of-factly, brushing back a loose wisp of hair and adjusting her glasses in the same motion.

"Tell me something," Sara indicated the tattoo, "do you see it as a vase or as two faces?"

Glory glanced at it perfunctorily. "Right now, it's just a splotch of ink embedded in my skin."

Sara's eyes shifted to the map. "Geographical profile of the five victims?" she guess.

"Yes," Dusk answered. "We're trying to figure out if they had any point in common. All five lived in different neighborhoods. None of them worked or went to school in the same place. Even where their bodies were dumped are miles apart."

"And the sketch--the only description we have of the killer," Glory dug the sketch out of a pile of reports. The face was a white man with brown hair, brown eyes, neither fat nor thin, with no moles or birthmarks or facial hair. "It could be any of a million men." She looked at Sara almost accusingly. "I read your report. You got a good look at him; you had time to study him. And this was the best you could come up with? There was nothing distinctive about the way he moved or his body shape?"

"Well, now he might have a limp."

Hotaru snorted a laugh.

"But no," Sara continued seriously. "He looked average. More than average. Completely ordinary. Completely normal. You could pass a dozen men who look just like him and not even look twice."

Glory's large brown eyes examined Sara from over the rim of her glasses. "You think you could still recognize him after all these years?"

"I used to see his face in every stranger I passed, and every time I closed my eyes," she replied. "But yes. I'll know him when I see him."


	6. Koan

Chapter 6: Koan

Grissom got to work early. His house felt so quiet and empty that he couldn't stand to be in it. There was a photo on his desk--not framed, merely lying among paperwork, half hidden. It was one he'd taken of Sara while they were investigated a shooting related to a duel. They had paced off, turned, and shot each other with cameras. That photo had never failed to bring a smile to his lips. Until now. Now it just made him ache inside.

He rubbed his beard. He'd stopped shaving a while ago, because every time he did it reminded him of Sara.

_"Do you trust me?"_

_"Intimately."_

He was tired. He hadn't been sleeping lately. It was with dull eyes that he read over the reports from the Straley case. His mind wouldn't stay focused.

_"Tell me where Sara is!"_

He shook away the memory of Natalie Davis and looked back at the photograph of Josh Straley. As the deaths they investigated went, a gunshot to the head wasn't very shocking.

_Sara had been particularly distraught after investigating the murders of six young dancers, one of whom died in front of her._

_"That was one of the worst cases I've ever seen," She said._

_Curiosity compelled him to ask, "What was the worst case you've ever worked?" _

_She was quiet for a minute. "It was in San Francisco." She offered no further explanation.  
_

Grissom's head jolted up. He'd nearly dozed off resting his chin on his fist. He went to his computer and did a search in the criminal database for 'MEC'. Could that have been the case she was referring to?

"MEC Killer," he read: "serial murderer active in San Francisco area in 1999. Acronym created by _Bay City Tribune_ stands for 'mutilate, exsanguinate, cremate,' which describes his signature. Term partially inaccurate, as the victims bodies were burned using gasoline as an accelerant, but were not fully cremated."

He read through a description of the four victims, all young, petite white females. Kylie Marshall, a 19-year-old attending a beautician school, killed January 1, 1999; burned remains found dumped underneath a pier in Fisherman's Wharf. Nicole Faber, 22, tourist from Texas. Killed April 14. Remains dumped in hills east of city. Sandra Dwight, 24, photographer, killed June 28, body found floating in ocean near the Marin Headlands. Killer appears familiar with San Francisco area, and managed to avoid witnesses in all cases. Fourth victim, Sarah Radu, 21, student at San Francisco State University. Killed August 8. Body found partially burned in oven of condemned hotel where MEC had been taking his victims. He hadn't dumped it because he was interrupted by crime scene investigator Sara Sidle, who unsuccessfully attempted to arrest the killer and shot him in the thigh as he fled the scene. He escaped in small black or dark blue car, license plate unknown.

It answered some questions, but raised more: how had Sara found him? Had she been alone when she faced off with him?

Suddenly a horrifying and irrational thought crossed his mind: had MEC somehow found Sara? Was that why she hadn't been in touch with him? Had the serial killer...

He couldn't think like that. Not again.

He found the report Sara had typed. Her voice came through the carefully objective language of the official report with an undercurrent of horror. He read it twice, his eyes darting across the screen. "Adobe dust found at the second dump site..." "...search of abandoned and aging adobe buildings sufficiently distant from inhabited buildings to allow the killer to work without fear of detection." "At the condemned Caravan Hotel, I noted clear signs of recent use..." "...had been unknown if MEC killed victims before or during mutilation process..." "...a young woman matching MEC's preferred type had been reported missing..." "...in the kitchen area, a row of large jars, three filled with what appeared to be blood." "I concealed myself beneath a large shelf in the kitchen area when I heard a door open." "...victim appeared dead..." "...unsafe to call for back-up. I was unable to draw my weapon in the cramped space." "MEC appeared to be excited by the sight and feel of blood..." "...continued to inflict deep cuts to the victim's torso, abdomen, face, and limbs..." "...poured gasoline over the body..." "...his back was to me, I took advantage of the noise of the gasoline fire..." "I crawled out of the hiding place, drew my weapon and identified myself as a police officer..." "...attempted to pursue, but impaired by loss of sensation to my legs incurred from maintaining immobile position..." "...shot the suspect in the left thigh as he exited the door to the parking space..." "...suspect reached his vehicle..." "I remained at the scene until arrival of back-up."

Grissom took a deep, shaky breath and buried his face in his hands. Sara had never told him about this. It must have been a nightmare for her. Even more troubling than the details she'd included was what she left unsaid. She had, according to official reports, been hiding in the kitchen for over an hour while MEC worked on his victim only a few yards away. It would have been especially horrible for her: the knife, the blood...it must have reminded her of her father's death. No wonder she'd never talked about it. She probably couldn't even face it in memory.

* * *

"You look bored."

Sara glanced up from the files she'd been reading and smiled wanly at Hotaru. "A little. I was just going over the reports from the first four murders, seeing if there's something I missed. But there's nothing here that I don't already know."

"Everyone else left for the night. MEC isn't going to kill anyone else any time soon. At least for a few weeks, if he's resuming the escalation pattern of the first four victims. You need some rest."

A dry laugh escaped her throat. "What I need is a drink."

"You and me both. Come on. It's on me."

A short time later, the two women were sitting across from each other in a quaint little bar named "The House." The building had to be at least a hundred years old, and contained both a bar and a used book store.

"I never told my coworkers in Vegas about the MEC case," Sara said after a thoughtful sip of her beer.

"Why not?"

"I don't know. I feel like I made so many mistakes with the investigation, I was embarrassed. And I thought I might have killed him; I didn't like to think about the possibility that I ended a life, even of a serial killer. And, I just didn't like to remember it."

"I understand that."

Sara nodded. She knew Hotaru had been through a lot during her time as a cop. Things more traumatic than most cops had to endure. She'd never let it affect her attitude, but Sara had come to suspect that might have more to do with Hotaru's skill at hiding her feelings than anything else. One of Hotaru's skills as a detective was concealing her real emotions while making it seem like she wasn't. She could make suspects think she believed them, even liked them, when she knew they were guilty of heinous crimes. Sara envied that about her.

Her ability to control the presentation of her own emotions also allowed her to pick up on the emotional presentation of others. They were two sides of the same coin. Hotaru's forte, what made her such an effective interrogator, was being able to interpret a person's stance, facial expressions, tone of voice, and word choice to tell if they were lying.

"Hattie," the name slipped out before Sara could correct it, "why did you accept the position as CSI supervisor?"

"Murphy wanted someone she trusted to take over her position. She chose me."

"But you loved being a detective, and you were good at it."

"I needed a change."

"Why?"

Hotaru swirled and sipped her glass of wine before answering. "There was this case about a year ago..." she began. "A successful lawyer, he'd been tied to his dining room table and strangled to death. At first we suspected sex play gone wrong, but my partner, Detective Velazquez, recognized the MO from a case he'd worked in L.A. We found six similar cases in different states, and realized we were dealing with a serial killer."

"And?"

"The killer was meticulous. There wasn't a trace of DNA, no fingerprints, no witnesses, nothing. The CSIs managed to figure out what kind of gun the killer used to threaten the victims into submission, and what kind of car the killer drove. We cross-referenced the registered owners of that type of gun and people who owned or were renting cars fitting the description. We ended up with about a dozen suspects, and I interviewed them all, and decided none of them was our guy."

"It's not likely he would have registered his weapon."

She shook her head. "After going through all of the evidence, Glory began suspecting the killer was a woman. We hadn't seriously considered it at first. There's still this idea that female serial killers don't exist, or at least not at the same level as men. And strangulations are usually committed by men. It turned out that we were dealing with a female rapist strangler sociopath."

"A sociopath," Sara repeated, beginning to formulate a guess about the effect this case had on Hotaru.

"As you know, according to the literature on the subject, female sociopaths are almost non-existent," she continued. "Velazquez took a second look at the suspects I'd interviewed. There were only three women. One of them, it turned out, was a novelist who'd lived in every city at the time of the murders we were looking at. It was her. I'd interviewed her, asked her point blank if she was the murderer. She'd lied to me, and I didn't catch it."

"Sociopaths lie as easily as most people breath," Sara commented.

"I know. There's no way I could have seen it, but...but ever since then, I've been second-guessing everything I see in an interrogation. I no longer trust my own judgment, and as soon as I question my own assessment, I lose it. I can't be sure of the truth anymore."

Sara couldn't think of anything to say. She ordered a second beer. A minute later, she asked, "Did you ever think about quitting?"

"No," she stated. "Why would I?"

"Doesn't everyone? The job just gets to feeling so...hopeless. No matter how hard we fight to solve crimes, there are always more criminals than we can handle."

"Well, if the criminals didn't keep coming I'd be out of a job. Being a cop is my life. I love the work. I can't imagine doing anything else."

"Neither can I; that's the problem," Sara said after a silent moment.

Hotaru examined her old friend. "I heard about the Miniature Killer."

Sara wasn't surprised. "I wonder if it will ever stop following me."

Hotaru knew exactly what she meant. She meant both the fact of the abduction on her record, and the horror of the near-death experience imprinted on her psyche. "No," she answered. "But it will get better. Your professional performance will prove it doesn't interfere with your work, and the nightmares will become less frequent and less intense. I promise."

For a long, long moment, Sara was silent. Then she said, "I'm just not sure I can take any more of this."

"Is that why you left your job in Las Vegas?"

"I'm not sure why I left anymore," she answered honestly.

"Did it have something to do with Dr. Grissom?"

Sara glanced up quickly, but didn't answer.

"I know you had feelings for him," Hotaru continued. "Isn't that why you moved to Las Vegas when he asked you to? Were you in love with him?"

"No," Sara claimed. "I went to Vegas because I thought it would be a good career move."

"You're still a terrible liar. The pitch of your voice rose. And you felt a need to offer an alternate explanation. You were in love with him."

She smiled. "Looks to me like you're still pretty good at this, Detective Polygraph. Yeah, I was in love with him. Hopelessly. I still am."

"How does he feel about you?"

It took her a moment to decide whether to keep playing the game, or tell the truth. "He thinks it's inappropriate to date a subordinate."

"You looked away, and you spoke more quickly than your normal rhythm. You were trying to misdirect me; you didn't actually address the question. Since you chose to lie, you would have told me he did return your feelings if he didn't. So he has feelings for you, or at least you believe he does. He must have been devastated when the Miniature Killer abducted you."

"People told me later that he was desperate to find me," Sara replied. "I think he felt a little responsible. The Miniature Killer--Natalie Davis--her foster father confessed to the murders and killed himself to protect her. She blamed Grissom for his death. She went after me to hurt him. We tried so hard to hide our relationship, but somehow the killer saw."

"She worked at the lab as a janitor," Hotaru said. "You were trying to hide your relationship from your coworkers, not the hired help. Besides...you know, the art of profiling was invented by criminals: they're always sizing people up, looking for their weaknesses. The Miniature Killer might just have noticed that Dr. Grissom's weakness was you." She paused thoughtfully. "Could that be why you left? Because you were afraid of being used against him again?"

"Maybe," she said quietly. Her eyes once again drifted to the window. "Part of me wants to go back. Not just to Gris, but to the work. But another part of me is terrified by the thought. I think it's irrational fear. It's funny, though...it wasn't like that at first."

"The full horror doesn't sink in until the initial shock wears off," Hotaru opined.

"But how do you get rid of the horror?" Sara asked.

"It takes time. You have to learn to face what happened, to accept it, and to make it yours."

"To make it mine?" she echoed, confused. "Isn't it better to try to distance yourself from it?"

Hotaru explained, "As long as you refer to the traumatic experience in vague, objective terms, you give it more...gravity, more power than it deserves, than it warrants. You were kidnapped, you were almost killed. Things that happen to a lot of people. Especially to people who work in a job like ours, dealing directly with the most dangerous scum humanity can produce." She gave Sara a moment to contemplate that, then said, "Tell me about Miss Davis. Describe her for me. What did she look like?"

"Natalie Davis...she was...young. She was thin, long brown hair, very pale. She had this way of fading into the background, keeping her head down. She was very shy. She barely talked, and when she did it was only a few words, in almost a whisper. She was stronger than she looked, but she tended to use passive methods to kill her victims. You know what? I can't remember the color of her eyes, but the _look_ in her eyes is what I remember most vividly about her. They were intense, wild...like fire and ice at once."

"You make her sound like a witch in a fairytale," Hotaru pointed out. "She kills passively, traps her victims in perfect models, like voodoo dolls she uses to cast spells on them. But remember that Natalie Davis is human, just like every other murderer we deal with. Insane, yes, but just another criminal. And remember that you survived."

Sara was quiet for a minute as she considered what Hotaru meant. "When did you get so analytical?" she asked.

"I've learned a lot the past few years. A lot has happened since you left." Another long pause passed. "You could come back, you know," she said. "San Francisco might not be as new and exciting as Las Vegas, but I'd like to think we have more character, more charm. Dr. Grissom could come back, too. We could really use a forensic entomologist of his caliber. The only one who could override my hiring decision is Murphy, and she'd love to have you back so much, she'd have no problem ignoring regulations against office affairs to keep you happy." She stood to leave. "Think about it."

Sara was tempted by the offer. More tempted than she would have expected. When she left Vegas, she's felt sick and tired, and worn out, and burned out, and like she simply couldn't stand to look at another dead body, or even lift one more dead-end fingerprint.

She didn't feel like that now.

* * *

The heat of the day began to insinuate itself on the streets of Vegas as soon as the morning Sun peeked above the rooftops. Greg sighed, hoping he wouldn't be out there all day, looking for the trail of the killer. "Guano and basalt," he mumbled to himself, looking at every yard, vacant lot, and ditch along the streets leading away from the jewelry shop. "Basalt and guano."

In a park only a couple of blocks from the crimescene, a sidewalk curved along the shore of a duck pond. The artificial beach was made of small purplish black pebbles that looked like the one he'd recovered from the shooter's footprint. When he stooped down to take a sample, a dozen ducks glided toward him across the pond's surface, rippling the reflected early light.

"No bread, just evidence bags," he joked in the waterfowl's direction. Then he paused as something in the shallow, murky water caught his eye. A black scrap of plastic, drifting with the water's movement.

He stood up and looked around. The sidewalk led to a restroom and parking lot in the middle of the park. Late at night, like when Josh Straley was shot, that would be an ideal place for a killer to park a car and escape unseen. This pond would have been a good spot to dump a gun, gloves, and ski mask. He walked around the curve of the pond, looking for any footprints. But then he saw something else, something gleaming a few yards away under the water's surface. He waded into the water, rolled up his sleeve and plunged his hand in. It came up with a small shiny object. Greg squinted as he tried to comprehend what he was holding. Finally he had to accept that it was exactly what it looked like: a platinum belly-button ring set with a large ruby. But it made no sense. Why would the killer dump this?

With his dry hand, he dug out his cellphone and awkwardly pressed Nick's number on his speed dial. "Hi, it's me. I found something...weird."


	7. Glimmer

Chapter 7: Glimmer

Grissom looked out over the duck pond pensively. They had dredged the muck at the bottom, which Greg and Nick were sorting through.

"Looks like the shooter's not the only one who tried to get rid of evidence in here," Greg complained. "I've already found plastic bags, beer cans, condoms, whatever this thing is, and what looks like chicken bones."

"Not a great place to hide things, though. It's small enough he should have known someone would find something. This could be the ski mask," Nick said, bagging a mud-covered clue.

Grissom squinted and looked down at them. "The killer must have been in a hurry to hide evidence, and wasn't worried about who would find it later. But any DNA or fingerprints have probably been compromised by the water."

"It doesn't make any sense, though," Greg mused. "We've already found several pieces of the missing jewelry. Why would the thief just dump it? Was he afraid they'd be traced to him and he didn't want to be caught for murder?"

"But that would mean he didn't mean to kill Straley," Nick said. "Did you see the video? The killer just pointed the gun and shot."

Grissom had been distracted by a passing butterfly, and the realization that this was the park where he and Sara used to have picnics. But now he looked back at the two CSIs. "You're missing another possibility. If the killer didn't care about the jewels, maybe it was the jeweler he was really after."

"So the robbery was just a cover for the murder?" Greg said. "But why?"

"Maybe someone didn't like being ripped off," Nick suggested. He had just found a platinum ring in the mud that he turned slowly in the sunlight. "I'm going to have to have the lab confirm it, but I don't think this is a real diamond. It looks like it has double refraction. I think this might be moissanite." He looked up. "If Straley was replacing diamonds with moissanite and pocketing the difference, he could've made a lot of people angry."

"Maybe his boss found out about it, and decided to get rid of Straley and save his company's reputation at the same time," Greg said.

"Or maybe the switch was Ayala's idea, and Josh threatened to expose him," Grissom added. "We won't know until we ask him."

* * *

Michael Ayala sat across the interrogation table from Detective Brass and Doctor Grissom.

"Thank you for coming in to talk to us, Mr. Ayala," Brass said.

"Like I told you before, I'll do everything I can to help you find out who murdered Josh. But I wish I didn't feel like I'm a suspect."

Grissom took over. "You should know that we've recovered the stolen jewelry."

"Where did you find it?"

"In the mud at the bottom of a pond in Gatewood Park."

"Mud?" His face crinkled in disgust.

"Does this ring look familiar?" Grissom placed a clear evidence bag containing the ring Nick found on the table.

"Of course. That's the last piece Josh made."

"Our lab has confirmed that this is not an actual diamond."

"Did you know Mr. Straley was using moissanite in his jewelry?" Brass inquired.

Ayala scoffed. "Have you actually read the insurance reports? Or Kaleid's website? We only use diamonds on special orders. I don't like to use them. For one thing, it's hard to avoid the taint of conflict diamonds. For another, everyone has diamonds. The diamond industry has convinced people it's the only stone worth putting in a wedding ring. By selling the idea that diamonds are the traditional symbol of love, they've made them the most crass, commercialized, and commonplace of jewels. They're stagnant; Kaleid is about innovation." He'd worked himself into rant mode. He picked up the bag and turned it so that the gem caught the room's meager light. "Moissanite is like diamond, but better. Diamond is crystallized carbon, moissanite is carbon and silicon, giving it the same molecular structure. Diamond has a refractive index of 2.4; moissanite's can be as high as 2.7. And this one is princess cut, which is one of the most brilliant cuts. And because it's a lab-created crystal, it has none of the controversy that diamonds entail. It's almost as hard as diamond, so it doesn't get scratched. I can't see why anyone would settle for diamond when they could have one of these."

"But moissanite is less expensive than diamond. Your price tags make people think it's the real deal," said Brass.

"Do you see the accent jewels in this ring?" Ayala asked irritably, pointing to two smaller, pale green stones to the sides of the moissanite. "Cabochon-cut chatoyant zultanite, one of the newest and rarest jewels in the world. Josh has also designed with Padparadscha sapphire, benitoite, every variety of opal--jewels far more rare and valuable than diamond. His creations are works of art worthy of royalty. Don't you get it? Whoever killed Josh robbed the jewelry world of a priceless treasure. I can't believe that you would think for a minute that I did it."

"No one's saying you did," Brass pointed out.

"But it's what you're thinking, isn't it? What you're implying with your questions about our jewelry?"

Grissom spoke up again. "The fact that the jewelry was dumped indicates robbery was not the motive. Someone targeted Josh Straley specifically. Did he ever mention having problems with someone? Did anyone ever threaten him?"

He thought about it, then shook his head. "I don't think so. I..." He trailed off, shook his head. "No."

Brass caught his hesitation. "Anything out of the ordinary? Even something you don't think could be important."

"About a month ago, he had a bruise on his face. It looked like something you might get in a bar fight, but he said he hit his face on his steering wheel when he stopped his car too fast. That's all."

"Thank you, Mr. Ayala. You can go now. We'll be in touch."

* * *

Sara's step slowed as she approached the door bearing the words "Director Nhung Murphy." She knocked softly.

"Come in."

When she entered, the woman behind the large desk smiled up at her. "Sara Sidle. Welcome back." Murphy's small hands were folded on her meticulously organized desk. Her large, almond eyes gazed steadily from her heart-shaped face, framed by chin-length white hair. At first glance, Murphy reminded everyone of their favorite grandmother, the one who would slip you candy when your parents weren't looking. And that impression wasn't entirely wrong; in addition to spoiling her grandchildren, she was more than willing to bend rules to protect her employees and solve her cases. She was sweeter than Grissom in disposition, but could teach Ecklie few things about cutthroat politics.

"It's good to be back," Sara replied. "I heard you called my boss in Vegas."

"Looking for you," she nodded. "I wanted you on this case. I figured that, after all the work you did looking for MEC after your encounter with him, you deserved the first crack at finding him this time around."

"How much have we learned from this latest murder?"

"Not much. Once again, MEC has left us little evidence. At the body dump, there were no visible footprints, no blood, no nothing. CSI Li and Frankenfield can tell you more. They are both very skilled investigators. Detective Velazquez questioned possible witnesses and turned up nothing. The body dump took place at night, less risky than daylight."

"I'd like to take a look at the scene. I doubt I'll find anything the others missed, but I want to put this murder in context."

"Of course. I'll arrange for Velazquez to take you this afternoon."

"I'd rather go tonight, after it gets dark. So I can see the beach like the killer saw it. Besides, I'm kind of used to working in the dark."

Murphy nodded. "Okay. I suggest you also take Li. He has an incredible memory for details, so he can tell you about the evidence as it looked when the body was found."

"Good idea." She hesitated for a moment. "Can I ask...did Grissom say anything when you talked to him? I mean...did he say anything about me?"

"He said you left, because of the Miniature Killer," she answered.

She had been hoping for more, but she wasn't sure what. She wanted to talk to him so much that she even craved hearing his words second-hand, but the longer she waited the more afraid she was of calling him. What would she say? What would he think?

Her focus shifted back to the current case when Murphy interrupted her thoughts. "There was one thing the CSIs noticed that might help: there were no footprints on the beach. The tide was going out; MEC may have taken advantage of that, walking through the water to avoid leaving prints."

"Sounds like something he would do. The water would have been freezing, but he seems to have a high tolerance for pain."

"Remember," Murphy said, "if this is our MEC, we can't count on him making a mistake. We have to be smarter than he is."

"He's killed five people," Sara replied with a distracted look in her eyes. "That was his mistake. It's going to catch up with him. And so will I."

* * *

Karen Straley opened her door to find the kind man from the crime lab, along with another man. "What can I do for you, Mr...Grissom?"

"Mrs. Straley, this is Detective Jim Brass."

"Hello. Can I ask what's going on?"

"We've found some new evidence in your husband's murder. We think _he_ might have been the target, not the jewels."

The implication dawned on her. She covered her mouth with her hand in shock. "You mean...You mean someone actually _wanted_ to..._meant _to kill Josh?"

"That's what it's looking like," Brass answered. "Would you be willing to answer some questions?"

"I guess. Ben, go play in your room please."

A young boy, possibly six or seven, picked up the toy dinosaurs he'd been halfheartedly moving around the living room carpet and left.

Grissom watched the child. He seemed quiet and withdrawn, and hadn't looked in the direction of the strangers once. He remembered only too well how hard it was to lose a parent at that age.

"Mrs. Straley," he asked, "Do you mind if I look around?"

"For what?"

"For any evidence of why someone might want to kill your husband."

A pained look crossed her face, but she nodded. "I don't think you'll find anything, but...go ahead. Our bedroom is up the stairs, the first door on the right. Just...try not to disturb anything if you don't have to."

Brass began his questioning. "You've had some time to think about it, do you remember anyone your husband had a problem with?"

"Absolutely not. Everyone loved Josh."

"Well, no one's perfect. You're telling me he never got in a fight with anyone, or got involved with any shady business deals? Nothing like that?"

She shook her head as he spoke, then paused. "Well...it's probably nothing, but..."

"But what?"

She sighed. "I was never sure, but I suspected he might be having an affair. I didn't see anything definitive, he would just stay out late a lot, and I've been getting the feeling he wasn't paying as much attention to me as he used to. But that happens in every marriage, right? I mean, if he was having an affair, wouldn't I have noticed some lipstick or perfume or something?"

Brass perked up. "Not necessarily. Did you ever hear him mention a name you thought could be hers?"

"No," she said. "I just...had the feeling." She blinked rapidly, but two tears spilled from her eyes anyway. "I loved Josh so much. More than anything in the whole world. Maybe if I was a better wife, he wouldn't...maybe he would still be alive? What am I going to do without him?"

Brass hated those kinds of questions. "I know it doesn't feel like it now, but you'll survive this. Things will get better."

"We've been together since high school. I can't imagine life without him. Please...will you find whoever took him away from me?"

"That is my job," he said.

* * *

The bedroom yielded no clues. There was no evidence of anything unusual, no indication that either Josh or Karen Straley kept any secrets from each other. He looked through a home office, and once again found only official home business. He made a note to take the victim's laptop to the lab for Archie to analyze, but was pessimistic about finding anything significant on it. He went downstairs for a quick glance around.

There was nothing suspicious in the kitchen, the bathroom, or the closets. He opened the door to another room where he found a tv, bookshelf, toybox, and the victim's son lying on the floor, holding a dinosaur.

"Hi," he said.

The boy didn't look at him.

He stooped down closer. "Your name's Ben, right? I'm Gil. That's a cool triceratops."

"Yeah," Ben quietly agreed. He bounced the toy along the floor for a moment.

Giving up on conversation, Grissom continued looking around.

"My dad's dead," Ben said suddenly.

"Did your mother talk to you about it?"

"She said I still had her, and she hugged me for a long time. That's why you're here, right?"

"That's right. Did you ever see your dad talk to anyone when your mother wasn't around, or hide anything?"

The child shook his head. "Mommy looked for him, but didn't find him anywhere. I wish I still had a daddy."

"I know," he said softly, wishing he could think of something better.

* * *

"So were you born in San Francisco?" Sara inquired conversationally.

"Yes. Born and raised in Chinatown," Li replied as he drove toward the beach where the body was found. "You?"

"Tomales Bay. But I moved around a lot."

They fell into an awkward silence. Sara had the impression that the young man was shy.

"Why do you think MEC stopped for so long?" he asked.

"I have no idea. I've been wondering that ever since I read about the latest killing." She looked out the car window at the passing buildings. "How long have you been a CSI?"

"Two years."

"Do you still like it?" She hadn't meant that question to be as revealing as it came out.

He glanced at her, then directed his eyes back to the road. "Sometimes. I love solving the cases, using science to find the villains, but some cases hit me hard."

"Which cases are the hardest for you?"

He seemed hesitant to answer, which was understandable: it was like asking someone what scared them most, asking them to expose their vulnerability.

"Mine was domestic abuse cases," Sara volunteered.

"Sex slavery," he answered. "A lot of that goes on in San Francisco. People prey on illegal immigrants, bring in women and children from other countries, force them into prostitution. It makes me sick."

After a stretch of silence, Sara asked, "What made you want to be a CSI?"

He shrugged. "I knew I'd be good at it. I'm really observant. As a child, I could get through a _Where's Waldo_ book in a minute. I wanted to use that to do something that would help people. And when I do help solve a case, help bring a criminal to justice, it's very gratifying. I like to think...that I can at least bring some comfort to the families."

"Does it ever feel hopeless for you, like no matter how hard you work, you can't keep up with the criminals?"

He considered it. "Not yet."

They arrived. The beach was bluely illuminated by the moon reflecting in the dancing Pacific water. A man in a trench coat approached the car. Li got out. Sara followed.

"Sara Sidle, this is Detective Alvaro Velazquez."

"Nice to meet you. Hotaru's mentioned you." They shook hands.

"You, too. Where was the body found?"

"This way."

They walked along the beach. The crash of the waves against the shore nearly drowned out the cars passing on the road. The light of the moon and stars outcast the streetlights, headlights, and city lights on the other side. The salty scent of the sea overpowered the slight hint of car exhaust and fried food drifting from the land.

"This is it," Li said, pointing to an area enclosed in crime scene tape.

Sara turned on her flashlight. "He used to burn the bodies and wait for them to cool before dumping them. This time he burned her on the beach. You didn't see any footprints or pieces of garbage when you processed the scene?"

"No. There were scraps of clothing left unburned because they had been soaked by the waves. He counted on the ocean to take away most of his evidence."

"And he took away some of the ocean," Sara said wistfully. She knelt in the the sand. "He would have been freezing." She pulled her jacket tighter against the breeze. "He likes to watch the fire. He would have stuck around for a few minutes, at a safe distance." She closed her eyes. "Did you find any footprints up or down the beach leading to the water, or any tire tracks?"

"No. We would have seen them if they were there, but they weren't."

"Detective Velazquez, where are the nearest docks from here?"

"About a mile and a half north. I checked there, and at every dock within five miles. No one remembered seeing a man carrying a corpse go anywhere near the water."

Sara tilted her head as she thought. "Li, did it look like the body had been dropped or slid?"

He closed his eyes to get a better look at the memory. "Slid," he answered. "And not...not from the water. There were some pebbles and shells that looked like they'd been pushed to the sides." He opened his eyes and looked up the beach. He took out a flashlight of his own. "But how could he have done that without leaving prints?"

Sara followed him. "He could have put something down as he walked to distribute his weight so he wouldn't leave a print."

"I don't remember seeing any marks from anything like that."

Further up the beach, above the high-tide line, there were a few meters of stunted bushes before the road. Some of them looked disturbed. Li's flashlight beam swung left and right along the sand and stones and thorny branches.

Sara and Velazquez added their flashlights to the search. Sara spotted a small black shred of plastic. "This could be something. He could have put plastic down to walk on, and took it away when he left. We think he used garbage bags to transport the bodies before."

Li came up beside her and snapped a few photographs before putting it in an evidence bag. Then they all looked toward the road. There were fresh tire tracks.

Velazquez articulated their thoughts. "And that could be his car."


	8. Varia Lecto

Chapter 8: Varia Lecto

Archie yawned as he read through Josh Straley's computer files. It wasn't that he was bored by reading through the sundry trappings of someone else's life, he just hadn't gotten much sleep lately. He skimmed through the next couple of e-mails without retaining any memory of what they said as his mind wandered elsewhere.

"Found anything?"

He jumped at his boss's voice. "Most of the stuff on his computer is related to his work. He has whole files of design ideas. I did recover a couple of interesting deleted e-mails. I'm still trying to put a name to the address, but listen to this: 'I know how much you hate people being in your business, but I'm worried about you. Take a step back and ask yourself how your life could be better. And remember I'm always here for you.' The next one is 'I meant what I said earlier. Think about my offer. I'll talk to you tomorrow.' Could be from a mistress."

"Could be a lot of things," Grissom said. He frowned slightly. "Did the victim reply to these?"

"The first one, but I haven't been able to recover his sent e-mails. There's nothing else but typical stuff from his boss, his parents, and his sister."

"That's all?"

"I know. It doesn't look like he was very popular."

"And there are no older e-mails from this address? It sounds deliberately ambiguous, like the writer was afraid someone else would read it."

"Like the police?" Archie mused.

"'I'll talk to you tomorrow'. When was that e-mail written?"

"That was written last Sunday."

"So 'tomorrow' would have been Monday. He might have talked to this person because they worked together."

"Wouldn't be the first time an affair started in the workplace," Archie teased.

Grissom almost smiled. "You would know," he said.

Archie's smile disappeared, replaced by a deer-in-the-headlights look. "What do you mean?"

"You requested this Friday off. Wendy has that day off too, doesn't she?"

"That's a coincidence."

By now Grissom couldn't hold a straight face. "Archie, Sara and I were together for two years before anyone found out. I know the signs."

"We're not in trouble?"

"One thing I pride myself on is not being a hypocrite."

Archie smiled with relief. "We just don't want Hodges to know. He has a thing for her."

"I've noticed. Don't worry; your secret's safe with me." He shifted his focus back to the case. "Besides his boss, there are five other current employees at Kaleid."

"How many of them are women?"

"Just one, but that doesn't discount the other four. Let me know when you track down who sent these e-mails."

"Will do."

* * *

It was shocking how quickly she fell back into the habits she had eight years ago, Sara realized as she entered the Peet's Coffee down the block from the San Francisco crime lab. She glanced over the menu quickly before ordering a latte.

"Hey Sara!"

She glanced behind her and spotted Kai sitting at a table by himself. She joined him. "Hey Kai. You still come here?"

"Yeah. It's nice to have a little routine in life, I think."

"I think you're right. I didn't see you yesterday. How are you doing?"

"You know...I'm surviving." He was smiling wistfully. "It's funny. It doesn't seem like you've been gone that long, but now you're back and it made me realize how much things have changed. I mean, the city's the same, job's the same, chasing the same scumbags, but...it's weird to realize that now I've been working at the lab longer than almost anyone. I don't feel like I'm getting older, but I guess I am."

"I noticed there's someone new in the trace lab. Are you mostly doing field work now?"

"Yeah. With the new technology they're coming up with, I decided it would be easier just to step aside and let someone new take over than try to keep up. Don't get me wrong, I think the new chem analysis machines are great, I just..." he shrugged dismissively.

"Tall latte," the barrista called.

Sara returned a moment later and took her first tentative sip of her coffee before continuing the conversation. "The technology is definitely getting better," she said. "If we had back then what we have now, MEC's latest might still be alive."

"We'll get him this time," he assured her.

She inhaled the steam coming off her coffee. Her expression was thoughtful.

"Tell me about Vegas," he encouraged her.

"Haven't you been there?"

"Yeah, but I've never worked there."

"It's tough," she said. "Loose money, lots of people looking for quick fixes, crime rate growing out of control..." noticing herself becoming too morose, she attempted a joke. "And don't even get me started on the heat."

"Sounds like you were pretty miserable there," he said sympathetically.

"No," she said quickly, then took a long drink of her coffee as she considered how much she wanted to say, and whether that was true. "It was okay. Hard to get used to, but I guess it grew on me."

"Maybe I'll drop down and visit you next time I'm out that way."

"Do that," she responded automatically. Another sip gave her time to consider why it had felt so natural for her to assume she would back there for him to visit. She took advantage of the conversation lull to ask the question she'd been posing to everyone, especially herself. "Kai, do you mind if I ask...why did you decide to be a CSI?"

"It was the most interesting thing I could think of doing with a chemistry degree."

"But why did you move into fieldwork? And why do you keep doing it, after all these years?"

He suddenly looked weary, and older, and she could tell she wasn't the only one the years had taken a toll on. "Because the work is important," he answered.

"But it never stops," Sara said. "The criminals keep coming. We can never stop them."

"Garbage never stops piling up, buildings never stop breaking down, but garbage truck drivers and repairmen never give up. We're like maintenance for crime. Sure we can't stop it, but we keep it in check, we keep the equilibrium balanced in favor of order. Imagine how much worse it would be if there weren't CSIs and cops and lawyers to put criminals behind bars, and make sure people realize they can't break the law without consequences. I assume that's just as true in Vegas as it is here."

"I suppose it is," she agreed.

Kai had finished his own coffee, but didn't leave. "But it's important to not let it take over your life. You know, you have to have things to do outside the work, things to think about, people to chill out with. Because if you don't keep your work and your life separate, you just go crazy." A moment later, he asked with a note of concern, "Are you thinking about quitting?"

She decided there was no reason not to tell the truth. "I already did. I left Vegas months ago. I've been traveling since then, trying to reevaluate my life."

"Wow. I never would have guessed it would get to you. A lot of CSIs burn out, but you always seemed so...unfazed by it all. But then, maybe you just kept everything inside too much. I'm sorry. I don't mean to psychoanalyze you."

"It's alright," she said, smiling but with a distracted look in her eyes.

"You were just so good at your job. I'm sorry." This time, his 'sorry' was sympathetic, not apologetic. "What are you going to do now?"

"I have no idea." She decided she didn't want to share any more. "Could you do me a favor, Kai? I don't want everyone to know I quit. Could you keep that to yourself?"

"Of course. I would never break your confidence."

"Thanks. I'll see you at work."

* * *

Nick found Greg in the evidence room, looking over Josh Straley's blood-spattered clothing. "Whatcha doing?" he asked.

"Well, Brass said the vic's wife said she thought he might have been having an affair, but she had no idea with who. I figured that if he was having an affair, there might be some evidence still on him."

"Did you find anything?"

"Not yet."

"Well, don't get your hopes up. He was at work all day before the shooting. If he was seeing someone, I doubt he found time for it that day."

"Oh, look what I just found," Greg said smugly, picking something off the sleeve. "One blond hair, root attached." He quickly tucked it in a bag. "DNA wins again."

"Good job," Nick said. "Of course, even if it is his mistress's DNA, it won't help us until we have someone to match it to. But it's a good start."

* * *

"The tires are a common brand. And they're all new, nothing really distinctive about the tread. The distance between them indicates a mid-size sedan." Dusk sounded increasingly unhappy as he explained his lack of findings over the photos spread across the table.

Sara frowned. "He might have bought new tires just so it would be harder to trace him. What I don't get is why he's being so careful; we already know his shoe size, his fingerprints, his DNA, and what he looks like. Why was he so worried about leaving footprints?"

"Paranoia," Frankenfield stated in a didactic mien from across the table, where she sat primly with her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, her head tilted, her glasses askew. "You nearly caught him nine years ago, shooting him in the process. His sanctuary had been discovered, violated. He would have been looking over his shoulder, afraid some evidence he left would lead you to him. Plenty of time to develop a full-blown paranoid personality disorder."

"That doesn't really help us find him, though."

Dusk glanced up at Sara. "Don't be too sure. Glory's pretty good at this."

"He's exaggerating," she said. "I make guesses based on common sense and what I know of past cases. Sometimes I'm right. Serial killers are particularly hard to profile, though. They're in a class by themselves, the extreme outliers on the bell curve of human decency. The car will probably have tinted windows. It won't be red; probably dark blue or black, less noticeable parked at the side of the road at night, less likely to be pulled over. He's an organized killer, so he'll have a murder kit. I'd bet he owns the car; he'd want something he's familiar with."

"So someone who owns a black or dark blue car with new tires."

"Brand new tires," Dusk said. "He couldn't have been driving on them for more than a day or two."

"If he's paranoid..." Sara said thoughtfully, "he probably paid cash for the tires."

"Makes sense," Glory nodded.

"So we know the size, we know the brand, and we know how he probably paid for them. We might be able to come up with where he bought them."

Glory opened her laptop and brought up a map of the city. "He may have replaced his tires right before he started hunting in order to minimize the trace he could pick up. We should start with places near where Selena Bristol disappeared."

"Her roommates said she went out shopping at about 5 p.m., but she didn't say where. A bus driver Velazquez interviewed said a woman who might have been Selena got off somewhere along 7th Street. I'll start making some calls." He left.

For half a minute, the only sound in the room was Glory's fingers tapping at her keyboard.

"So I take it you're one of those criminalists who's more concerned with theory than practice," Sara observed.

"Doesn't make me wrong."

"But does make you a good CSI?"

She shrugged. "It gives me a different perspective, which tends to help. Understanding why criminals do what they do helps me envision how they do it, which in turn helps me know what evidence to look for, and where to look for it."

"Good point," Sara conceded.

Glory looked back at her computer screen. "MEC probably crossed the Bay Bridge to reach the dump site. In all of his murders, the abduction sites and the dump sites are miles apart. He probably picks out both beforehand. He's extremely familiar with the San Francisco area. Dumping the bodies seems to be part of his signature. He never buries them; he's displaying the bodies, the ashes. I think that means something symbolic to him."

"Like, ashes to ashes, dust to dust?"

She shook her head. "More like litter. Refuse. He's showing his contempt for them." Glory glanced up at Sara, watching her intently. "He degrades their bodies with the mutilations. Of course, burning them erases a lot of the evidence of what he might do to them. For example, is MEC a necrophiliac? Your report was a little vague on the details."

Sara looked disgusted at the question. "If my report was vague," she said, "it's because there are some images that no one should have to have in their heads, and I won't be responsible for spreading them."

"Dash told me that you didn't sleep for a week after shooting MEC. Was it because you couldn't close your eyes without seeing what he did?"

"I don't want to talk about this," Sara said decisively, standing to leave. "Let me know if you come up with anything else. I'm going to go help Li."

* * *

Brass found Grissom in his office. He walked in without knocking, and was surprised to find Grissom holding a photograph. He quickly shoved it under some papers, but not before Brass could see that it was of Sara.

"You're done with interviewing Straley's coworkers?" Grissom asked, trying to sound casual.

"Yeah. Didn't find out much. If he was having an affair, it was news to them. He usually stayed late at the shop, he never went out with them for drinks after work, and he seemed devoted to his family. Anything new in the evidence department?"

"We weren't able to recover any prints from the gun, and the mask and gloves were too contaminated to get DNA samples. Greg found a hair on the victim's shirt. We're asking for elimination samples from his family and coworkers now. But to be honest, there's not a lot of forensic evidence to go on."

"Then maybe you should try to look at it a different way: instead of focusing on the forensics, look at the psychology. It was a shot to the face, the jewels were dumped: we know it was personal. So who had the most motive to kill this guy?"

"That's a good question. One we'll be better able to answer if we can figure out whether he was having an affair."

At that moment, Archie entered the room. "Hey, I found out who the mystery e-mails were coming from. They originated on the same computer as another of Straley's contacts."

"Who?" Grissom asked.

"His boss: Michael Ayala."


	9. Clarity

Chapter 9: Clarity

Michael Ayala's eyes followed the printout of the e-mails as Brass slid them across the table toward him.

"Would you like to explain these, or would you rather hear what I think?"

He shook his head. "This isn't what it looks like."

"What does it look like, Mr. Ayala?" Grissom asked.

"You think, what, that I was harassing him? That's not what this was about. I was worried about him."

"Why were you worried about him?"

"Josh has always kept to himself a lot, but in the past year or two, it was like he completely retreated, like he didn't have a life outside of his family and his job."

"You asked him how his life could be better. That doesn't sound like the concern of a boss," Brass pointed out.

Ayala rubbed his eyes. "I cared about him, okay? His work was suffering. He was suffering. Whatever was going on with him, I wanted to help him fix it."

"What was the 'offer' you talked about?"

"A conference of jewelry designers in New York City. I invited him to come to it with me. It would have been great publicity for him, for Kaleid. He said he couldn't be away from his family for that long, I asked him to reconsider. It wasn't like I was trying to get him to leave his wife or anything."

Grissom leaned forward, looking thoughtful. "Mr. Ayala, as long as you didn't kill him, I don't care what your personal relationship with Mr. Straley was. Do you have any idea why he was depressed?"

"No. Josh was a great guy, but he closed himself off a lot. I wish I knew."

"Are you sure?" Brass asked. "Are you sure Josh didn't close himself off because you were pressuring him--a married man, and you his boss--to do something he didn't want to do?"

He pushed himself out of the chair angrily. "I never would have...I swear..." he walked to the reflective glass along the near wall and rested his fist on it. He was grimacing, fighting back tears. "I'll say this one last time, I didn't kill Josh. I would never have killed Josh. I needed him."

Grissom nodded and left the room. Brass followed him.

"You believe him?" Brass wondered.

"I believe his feet are at least two sizes too big to have left the shoe prints at the scene."

"So where does that leave us?"

"One suspect closer to the truth."

* * *

Sara and Detective Velazquez entered Rizzo Tire Service, the third possible source of the killer's tires that they had tried.

"Can I help you?" asked the wan, grey-goatteed man behind the counter, whose name tag identified him as Albert.

"Yes. I'm Detective Alvaro Velazquez from the San Francisco Police Department, and this is Sara Sidle from the Crime Lab. Last Wednesday someone bought four tires here, paid in cash."

"Yeah, I remember him," the man said. "His old tires were perfectly good. I didn't get why he was replacing them."

"Was it this man?" Sara asked, showing him the sketch of the suspect made from her own description nine years before.

He squinted at it. "Could be him, but he looked older, a little chubbier. He had a limp. He walked with a cane. Other than that, he didn't make much of an impression. He kind of mumbled."

"Do you remember anything else about him?" inquired Velazquez. "His license plate number, the kind of car he had?"

He shook his head. "He seemed like he was in a big hurry. I just changed the tires as quick as I could. Oh, and when he left, he drove right into the mall parking lot instead of going toward the street. A lot of people go to that mall while we work on their cars."

"Thank you. Here's my card; call if you remember anything else," Velazquez said.

He looked at the card. "Hey, was this...do you think he was that guy they're talking about in the news? That MEC Killer?"

"Maybe," Sara said.

Velazquez gave her a warning glance. "Just call if you remember anything, or if you see him again."

When they walked out, he said to Sara, "Is that how you do things in Las Vegas? Telling witnesses about the investigation?"

"That's how I do things, when it doesn't damage the case," Sara replied. "He probably recognized the sketch from the news. It didn't hurt anything telling him what he'd already guessed. Besides, considering how much he helped us..."

"You think MEC uses malls as his hunting ground?" Velazquez guessed.

"Makes sense. We know Nicole Faber was last seen in a souvenir shop, and Sarah Radu disappeared after telling her friends she was going shopping. What better place for him to watch his preferred prey, young women? Anyway, even if that isn't where he found his victims, if he was there, he'll be on the security cameras."

* * *

Wendy looked up when Grissom entered the DNA lab. "Hey. Archie said he talked to you about the thing, and I just wanted to say thanks."

He nodded distractedly. "You paged that you have the results from the hair found on the victim?"

"Yes. The Straley case. It belonged to his wife."

Grissom's eyebrows rose.

"It's probably incidental transfer, not even related to the case," she reminded him. "At least that's what any defense attorney would say."

"It could also have come off the murderer."

"You think the wife killed him?"

"There's not enough evidence to speculate yet. But she suspected her husband was having an affair. Motive."

"I can check the mask for usable DNA again," she said with forced hope.

"Great." He walked away, looking distracted.

"You're welcome," she called after him.

Grissom went to the trace lab next.

"Oh hey," Hodges greeted him. "You got my page."

"What have you found?"

"All thirty-three pieces of jewelry had trace amounts of gun powder on them, so the killer handled them before taking off his gloves. Meaning, unfortunately, that there won't be any partial prints on any of them."

"Right." Grissom nodded. "So that was all thirty-three of the stolen pieces?"

"Yeah. Nick and Greg went through that pond muck so thoroughly one of them literally found a needle."

"But there were thirty-four jewelry pieces, including the victim's wedding ring. Did anyone find it?"

Hodges looked over his logs. "If anyone did, no one pointed it out to me. All I know is there are thirty-three pieces of high-end bling-bling in my lab right now."

Grissom looked over the jewelry, each piece laid out and labeled in trays on the table. He paused at one ring, which he lifted out after pulling on a pair of gloves. It looked just like the one they had used to confront Michael Ayala, the last one Straley finished, except the two round side stones were a pinkish peach instead of light green. "I don't remember seeing this one in the photos."

"Zultanite," Hodges said. "It changes color depending on the light source. Watch, this is cool." He turned off the bright lamp above the table, and the stones turned the same green they'd been in the interrogation room.

"Like alexandrite," Grissom noted.

"Right. And then there's moissanite, which is also pretty cool. Did you know naturally occurring moissanite was first discovered in a meteorite fragment? I was actually thinking that moissanite is the perfect stone for a CSI. It's lab-created, and we work in labs. And its chemical formula is SiC, which could just as easily be written CSi."

"Is that the kind of thing you think about while you're supposed to be working?" There was just a little bit of an accusatory tone in his voice.

"My mind is a complex thing."

Grissom ran his gloved finger over the gems, noting how smooth they were. The zultanite reminded him of butterfly wings. He put it back and took one last look at the jewelry. Straley's wedding ring wasn't there.

"Speaking of complex minds, what's going through yours?" Hodges inquired at his thoughtful look.

"Robert Browning's 'My Last Duchess': 'Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; then all smiles stopped together...'"

Hodges didn't see the connection, but decided not to admit it.

Grissom went down to the morgue. "Hey Doc. Can I take a look at the autopsy report on Josh Straley?"

* * *

Sara entered the darkened audio-visual analysis lab. She slowly approached the glowing computer screens. "This the surveillance footage from the mall?"

"If it weren't you wouldn't be here," Dashiell answered. "I've enhanced the image as much as I can. I'm starting it as soon as the mall opened that morning."

She sat down in the chair next to his. "The man he bought the tires from says he was walking with a cane. That should be easy to spot."

"And you're sure you're up to this?"

"I'll still recognize him."

"That's not what I meant."

They were quiet for a minute, watching the people move past the security cameras at the entrances of the mall.

"You've been avoiding me," Dashiell softly accused.

"So have you."

"Eight years, Sar." He didn't look at her, the light from the screens reflected in his dark eyes. "You never even e-mailed. You never even said goodbye. I had to hear from Murphy that you left, and then that you weren't coming back..."

"There are a lot of people I didn't say goodbye to," she pointed out.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "It was just...it was complicated."

He said more quietly, "And that's the one thing we promised we'd never be."

She nodded.

Dashiell had come to work at the CSI lab a few months after she had. They were both commitaphobic workaholics, both evasive about their personal lives and their pasts. It had been a casual flirtation; they often spent time together talking about work, or politics, or science--never anything personal. Sometimes their relationship became physical, which had been possible only because they knew it would never be serious.

"I guess it's all in the past," he said. "It's not like I've been pining for you or anything. But I thought I at least deserved a goodbye, or a letter, an e-mail, something."

"I'm sorry," she repeated. A minute later, she said, "I went into foster care when I was twelve, didn't leave until college."

He glanced at her, then back at the screen. "So that's another thing we had in common. Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"Because then I would have had to tell you why. My mother killed my father. That's what I couldn't tell you; why I couldn't let myself get close to you, or anyone, for a long time."

"I understand," he said. "I'm sorry. I had no idea."

"You're the...third person I've ever told. I don't think even Murphy knew."

"I'm glad you told me. So did going to Vegas help?"

"Maybe. It was good, I think, to get away from my past. But...there was something else." She took a deep breath. "There's this guy...back in Vegas. We're really good for each other. We're...engaged."

Dashiell nodded slightly. "Have you told him what you just told me?"

"Yes."

"Do you love him?"

She nearly laughed. "Yeah."

"Good. I'm happy for you. I really am. Congratulations."

"Thanks."

"I still wish you'd called, though," he said a moment later, levity and perhaps a shade of relief in his voice.

They watched the footage for a few minutes silently, then Sara said, "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

"Depends on the question."

"Why did you become a CSI?"

He stared into the computer screens, contemplating how to answer. "You know...I saw a lot of things when I was younger. A lot of bad things."

She nodded, encouraging him to continue.

"A lot of suffering, a lot of law-breaking. I wanted to stop it, but I couldn't be right in it, like a cop. I needed some distance, exactly because I'd been too close to it on the wrong side. But I had to do something to help. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah, it does. But with all the things you see now...the blood, the bullets, the violence...how the crime just never stops...how do you deal with it?"

"It's not about me," he said. "I feel, deep down, that if I can do something that saves even just one life, it will all be worth it. When you boil it down, it's not about the crimes: it's about the person. What about you? Why do you do it?"

"I don't know," she answered.

A few minutes later, she suddenly leaned forward. "Wait! Pause it." She pointed to a man moving through the crowd. "That's him. That's MEC."

"Just a sec. Let me magnify this." Dashiell isolated the face in the crowd and clicked until it filled the screen. "That's as clear as I can get it. Are you sure it's him?"

She answered with a sudden sharpness in her voice. "It's him."

Dashiell went back to the full screen. He slowed the video and watched the man move through the crowd. "He does look like he's limping."

"A bullet in the leg will do that to a person. We had every hospital in the city on the lookout for this guy. If he got any treatment after I shot him, it wasn't from a medical professional."

He switched to another camera, and spotted the man in a couple of seconds. "He's going up the escalator. Look at the upper story."

"Isn't that the latest victim?"

"Selena Bristol. He's watching her."

MEC followed his target through the busy mall, unnoticed. He loitered outside stores she entered, looking at window displays or pretending to talk on a cellphone. He continued following her until she left the mall over two hours later.

"How do you think he gets her into his car?" Dashiell asked.

"He could have offered her a ride home. She took the bus there. Only two of the previous victims drove cars. I don't know. There was a security camera in the parking lot, wasn't there?"

"Yes. Just a moment."

He brought up the footage from the parking lot exit at the same time index. Several cars drove by. From the angle of the camera, the passengers inside the car were out of sight, but the license plates were clearly visible.

When the time stamp read nine minutes after MEC and his victim had left the building, Sara said, "Pause it." She pointed to the latest car. "Dark mid-sized sedan. That matches the tire tracks we found at the scene."

"And it matches what Glory guessed the car would look like."

"Is she really as good as she thinks she is?"

"Almost," Dashiell replied with a laugh as he zoomed in on the license plate. He went to another computer and typed the number into the DMV database. The registered owner's name, address, and driver's license popped up. "Caleb Garth Miller."

Sara stared at the driver's license photo. The image--far clearer than the security video from the mall had been--a few years older, heavier, the brown hair a little longer, but it was the same face that had haunted some of her nightmares. They had the identity of MEC.

* * *

"Hey Jim," Grissom called out, running a few steps to catch up with the detective. "Any luck finding a mistress for our victim?"

"None. This guy's as squeaky clean as they get. As far as I've been able to dig up, he didn't do anything besides work. You don't look surprised."

"I'm not. I wanted to run something by you: if the victim was a woman, what would his lifestyle suggest to you?"

Brass considered that for a moment. "He never went out, didn't seem to have any friends, little contact with anyone outside his family. I'd assume he has a controlling, probably abusive spouse."

"You know, some studies show spousal abuse directed by a wife against her husband is almost as common as the other way around. It doesn't leave as much physical evidence, but it's just as psychologically damaging. The first step is to control the victim, cut him off from the outside world, use verbal and emotional abuse along with periods of reconciliation to weaken his will. The victim's self-image eventually becomes so low that he's convinced the abuse is his own fault, and he feels dependent on his abuser, especially if it's the mother of his children. If he did leave her, the court would probably grant custody to the mother."

"But you said that his wife was devastated when you broke the news."

"I think what I initially assumed to be despair might have actually been guilt. I looked at the autopsy report. Josh Straley had a number of old bruises, a couple of healed fractures in his nose and fingers. None of the injuries were recent."

"An abuser is most likely to murder the victim when she or he tries to leave the relationship. If the wife found the e-mails from Josh's boss..."

"She might have concluded he was having an affair and was planning on leaving her. That could have been the trigger."

"And since by her own admission she was out looking for her husband that night, she has no alibi."

"But lack of alibi doesn't prove guilt, and we don't have any evidence directly linking her to the murder."

"If she did it, she's a good actress. It won't be easy to get her to confess."

"She kept her husband's wedding band. If we can find it, we've got her."

"If we can get a warrant." Brass shook his head. "I interviewed this woman. She kept saying how she couldn't live without him, how maybe it wouldn't have happened if she'd been a better wife. The same kind of things a wife-beater might say to guilt-trip the victim. She sounded possessive, but it didn't even cross my mind that she was abusing him."

"It's not easy looking past societal assumptions. Even with the missing ring, I might have still been fooled by Karen Straley's act, except..."

"Except what?"

Grissom spoke more quietly. "I asked myself what Sara would think if it were her case. She would have looked for it right away."

"You haven't been in touch with her, have you?" Brass guessed.

He didn't answer the question. "Let's focus on the case," he said. "I'll try to get a warrant for her house if you bring her in for questioning."


	10. Cut

Chapter 10: Cut

"Caleb Garth Miller is a lifelong native of San Francisco. He works as a delivery coordinator at the Formosa Office Complex. He called in sick today," Dusk reported.

"I just heard from Alvaro," Hotaru added. "Miller's wife said he left for work this morning."

The CSIs gathered around the table exchanged worried looks. "He could be hunting his next victim," said Glory.

"Thanks for stating the obvious," Dashiell remarked.

"Someone has to."

"So we just have to find him first," Hotaru said. "Alvaro took the precaution of taking the suspect's wife into custody as a material witness. His cellphone is turned off."

"He could be anywhere," said Kai. "It's like the Bondage Strangler all over again."

"Except MEC doesn't know we're onto him. Kai, you and Dusk go to Miller's house and see what you can find. Dash, the computer at Miller's office: as soon as I get a warrant I want you on it. Glory, take Sara and see if you can figure out where MEC might be now."

"Right."

They all split up to their assignments. A shiver of excitement ran up Sara's spine; it felt good to be on the chase again.

* * *

"Would you like some water, Mrs. Straley?" Brass asked.

"No, thank you." The woman smiled uncertainly. "Will this take long? I really think I should be with my son right now."

"How long it takes depends on you. Can you tell me exactly where you went the night your husband was killed?"

She looked down at her hands. "I see where this is going. You can't find the person who killed my husband, so you're going to blame me."

"We're trying to eliminate you as a suspect. If you didn't do it, you've got nothing to worry about."

She exhaled slowly. "When he didn't come home from work on time, I tried to call him. When he didn't answer his work phone, I dropped Ben off at his aunt's house, then drove by Kaleid. The lights were turned down, and I didn't see him inside, so I went to check some bars nearby, and then...well, I thought he might have gone to a casino, so I went to the Strip and...I know I was being irrational, but I was so worried about him. I don't remember exactly where I checked."

"It sounds like you loved Josh a lot," he commented, sounding casual.

"I did."

"We found some e-mails we thought were interesting. Did you know if your husband was thinking of leaving you?"

She glanced away before answering, speaking in a slightly colder voice. "He never would have left me. He wouldn't have done that to Ben."

"But you knew about the e-mails. How did it make you feel that he was cheating on you?"

She didn't deny knowing about the e-mails. She would have, but she saw in the second question a way to avoid a direct lie. "How would you feel, if it was your wife? I felt sick inside, asked myself what was wrong with me. But I loved him so much, I only wanted him to be happy. That's all I've ever wanted."

Someone knocked at the window. Brass left without a word to the suspect and found Grissom in the observation room.

"My guys have been all over her house. The ring's not there."

"Something that small, she could have hidden it anywhere."

"But the search warrant only covered her house and car." Grissom looked at the suspect. "Let me talk to her," he requested.

Brass nodded.

Grissom entered the interrogation room. "Hi Karen. How are you doing?" he asked, trying to sound sympathetic.

"The detective thinks I killed my husband," she said.

"Just because his wedding ring was the only thing stolen that we didn't recover," he said dismissively. "And...the cops always suspect the spouse."

"Why? Because they suspect the easiest person to find?"

"Because a lot of marriages aren't as happy as yours was. You're a homemaker, right? You're completely devoted to your husband and child. Not a lot of women are these days."

She nodded. "Josh sometimes said he wanted me to have a career outside the home. He said I was smart, and he wanted me to be happy, but he and Ben are all I ever needed to be happy. He was my heart, the center of my life. I just wish..."

"That he felt the same way about you?" Grissom asked, still sounding like he was taking her side.

She blinked rapidly. "How could he ever think about leaving me?" she asked quietly. "I did everything for him. Everything I ever did was for him. How could he do that to me? To his son?"

"I know what it's like to love someone," Grissom said, looking off wistfully. "To be happy whenever your with them, no matter what you're doing. To feel their absence like a gaping chasm in the landscape of your life. And when someone who means that much to you leaves you..."

"It hurts," Karen said. "It makes you feel sick, deep inside. How could he do that to me?"

"How could you let him?" Grissom added. "Just let him go off with someone else, leaving you...tearing your life open, not even caring that you'll never be happy without him?"

"I couldn't," she whispered.

"He'll never leave you now."

Was that the faint trace of a smile on her lips? "No, he won't."

"He was going to take your life, so you took his."

"Exactly."

The door opened. Brass entered. "Karen Straley, you're under arrest for the murder of Josh Straley."

She blinked as her attention came back to reality. "What? No." She looked pleadingly at Grissom. "You can't let this happen! I had to do it. How could I let my husband be with some other woman? How could I let Ben grow up knowing his father belonged to someone else? I had to. It's not my fault. I had to." Her voice trailed off to a whimper.

Grissom stood up. There was no longer any trace of sympathy on his face. "Your son would have been better off having a father. Now you've taken both of his parents away from him." He walked up to her, pain in his eyes. "If your really loved your husband, you would have let him go."

* * *

CSI Frankenfield read something on her computer, her head slightly tilted, her glasses and a mug of cold coffee resting on the desk next to her. "If you were a serial killer who suddenly started killing again after a decade of inactivity, what would you do?"

"I don't know," Sara answered. "Maybe kill myself before I could hurt anyone else, leaving a full confession."

"If you had that attitude, you wouldn't be a serial killer," Glory stated.

"True. What's your point?"

"If MEC is stalking his next victim today, it indicates a rapid acceleration. He's devolving. We know that he takes his victims from different parts of the city. I think he'll go to the closest appropriate hunting ground he possibly can. We should look for him at the shopping mall closest to his house."

"Not necessarily a mall," Sara said. "Any shopping center or tourist site. Anywhere with a lot of people, with a lot of young, vulnerable women." She looked over a map of the city. "His house isn't far from Fisherman's Wharf."

"Which fits his criteria perfectly." She frowned. "That's a lot of area to cover."

"Then we should get going."

Glory navigated the car through the busy San Francisco streets. The first few minutes of the drive were silent. "So," Glory asked suddenly, "what you said earlier: do you really think serial killers deserve to die?"

"I wouldn't say they deserve it, but if it saves more lives...I think that would be better."

"Do you think MEC deserves to die?"

"I shot him because I had to. He was running away; it was either him or his future victims."

"That's not what I asked."

Sara looked out the window. "I don't think it's right to kill anyone if you can avoid it, but I must admit, when I thought he was dead, part of me was glad it wouldn't go to trial, so the victims' families would be spared the details of their deaths." She glanced back. "What do you think?"

"I'm opposed to capital punishment for a number of reasons: it's often impossible to conclusively prove someone's guilt; murder has the lowest recidivism rate of any crime; I believe that reformation is possible for all criminals with the probable exception of serial killers; since justice is the collective will of the people, the death penalty makes everyone a little bit guilty; and to some people the fact that the government metes out death as retribution conveys implicit permission for them to do so as well."

"But that's different. MEC's a serial killer, and we know he's guilty, and that he'll kill again if given the chance. If you had the choice of killing MEC or letting the case go to trial, what would you do?"

"I'd take it to trial," she answered unhesitantly. "The trial is the most important part of the justice process. It publicly delineates and clarifies acceptable and unacceptable behavior, thus serving as society's rulebook and the public discourse of its evolving mores. And as a ritual of public shame for the accused, it is a significant part of the punishment."

"That's a rather...unique opinion," Sara commented.

Glory gestured to her Rubin vase tattoo. "You know why I got this? To remind myself to look at things differently, to view things from perspectives other people don't consider, not because they're necessarily right, but because it's _useful _to do so."

Sara looked at her for a minute before asking, "Why did you become a CSI?"

"Because someone has to," she said. "And I _can. _A lot of people say I'm callous, some even call me heartless. Fine. I can look at the bodies, at the blood, at the death...none of it bothers me. Maybe that makes me a horrible person, but I use that in service to society."

"How can you be so sure it's really serving society, though? No matter how hard we work, there are always more criminals. It's like we don't make any difference at all."

"Is _that _why you left? Yes, there are always criminals. Maybe there always will be. And yes, it gets frustrating. Being a CSI is a difficult, thankless job, and if you can't take it any more, than go ahead, walk away. But don't tell me you didn't make any difference, because that would imply that _I_ don't make any difference. And I _do_."

"Are you always this defensive?"

"Are you always this offensive?" she shot back.

Sara fell silent.

"He's going to park somewhere off the beaten path, where no one will see the victim getting into his car. Not many places like that in this part of town," Glory commented minutes later.

"He might park near the beach on Jefferson Street; that's within easy walking distance from Ghirardelli Square. Or behind the loading docks on Pier 45," Sara suggested, struggling to remember this part of town.

Glory leaned over and opened her glove compartment. She handed Sara a pair of binoculars. "I'll drive through. You look for his car."

She looked through the binoculars, but said, "He could have switched cars."

"He's a paranoid serial killer with control issues and a devolving mental state; he didn't dump his car."

"You always sound so sure of yourself. What if you're wrong?"

"Then I'm wrong," she said nonchalantly. "Wouldn't be the first time. Every cop in the city is looking for MEC. If we don't find him here, someone else will find him somewhere else."

"Before or after he kills his next victim?"

"Whichever."

"And that really wouldn't bother you?"

"No," she claimed. "I'll know it wasn't my fault, that there was nothing more I could have done, and that feeling bad about it isn't going to help me get the killer off the streets."

Not finding MEC's car at the first two places they tried, they checked other nearby parking lots. It was on the bottom level of the Anchorage Shopping Center that Sara spotted it. "Stop," she said.

Glory pulled up beside it. While she called for backup, Sara got out and looked in the darkly tinted windows of MEC's car.

"They'll be here in five minutes. The local security is being contacted," Glory informed her.

"He could have his victim already. For all we know, he kills them before he even gets them in his car."

She rolled her eyes. "You want to go look for him, don't you."

"Yes."

"You know those stupid ideas people sometimes get..."

"You're right. That would be a bad idea." A small, almost apologetic smile made a brief and superficial appearance. "Too bad you can't stop me." She started walking away, heading for the exit.

Glory scoffed incredulously. "What? Do you plan on just taking him down alone?"

"If I have to," Sara called back.

Sara scanned the crowd, just beginning to thin after the mid-afternoon rush. Recalling how he'd stalked his last victim through the mall, she looked for a high vantage point. She was halfway up the escalator when she saw a man on the upper level walking with a cane. He had his back to her, and she couldn't tell from that distance whether it was MEC.

She stepped off the escalator and worked her way through the crowd as quickly as she could. Grissom, she mused, would hate that she was going after a serial killer alone, but at the moment that didn't matter to her. What mattered was getting MEC, getting justice for the women he murdered.

The man she'd been following slowed and leaned against the railing, looking down at the crowd below. She got a glimpse of his profile, and recognition shot through her like electricity: it was him.

She struggled to bring her breath under control. She had to be calm if she was going to catch him. She walked normally, trying not to draw his attention. When she was nearly behind him, she spoke. "Caleb Miller?"

He turned toward her. His eyes widened, and he suddenly darted into the crowd.

Sara took off after him. "Stop him! Police!" she shouted.

Most people, too shocked to do anything else, moved out of the fleeing man's way. The few who didn't he violently pushed aside. He ran to an emergency exit, triggering the alarm as he left the building.

Sara sprinted toward the door. She burst through it only to be struck hard in the face by MEC's cane. He'd been waiting outside the door for her. He grabbed her arm and pushed her against the railing of the fire escape. She turned toward him, preparing to defend herself from his next blow when the door opened again.

"Freeze!" Glory shouted.

MEC threw Sara toward her, then ran down the clattering metal stairs.

"You okay?" Glory asked tersely, noticing Sara's bleeding lip.

"Yeah."

"Good." The CSI started chasing after the fleeing serial killer.

A second later, after regaining her balance, Sara followed.

Miller jumped the last floor to the ground, then ran across the street. Glory was a few seconds behind him, and lost more time as she had to dodge past a couple of cars. Sara caught up with her on the other side of the street.

"You know," Glory said between gasps, "I'm not sure I like you, Sidle."

"You didn't have to come," she replied.

"Yeah I did. I just had to disable his car first."

The suspect slipped between a couple of warehouses, heading toward the docks.

"I didn't think he could run so fast," Sara said.

"I think...the cane is mostly for show. Makes people think he's weak. It's disarming."

"And, ironically, he uses it as a weapon."

MEC jumped over a concrete divide, and dropped into a truck loading zone.

Glory hurdled over it, landing in a crouch with her gun pointed sharply in front of her. She adjusted her crooked glasses with her shoulder.

Sara climbed over the divide and stood behind her. She scanned for their quarry in the waning twilight. "Where did he go?"

"Sh!"

They listened, hearing nothing but the crash of the waves. Glory lowered herself to the ground and looked underneath the trucks.

"I don't see him," she whispered.

Sara was fairly certain he had gone left. It would have been best to split up, but she wasn't sure Glory would agree to that, and they didn't have time to waste. She headed off into the blue shadows without waiting.

The odors of fish and salt and gasoline hung in the air. A rat flashed across the alley and disappeared into a crack in the building. Sara scanned the shadows, moving as quickly as she silently could. She held her breath, listening for any sound besides the waves, the cars, and the beating of her own heart...

Like the metallic clank of a concealable knife popping out of its hilt.

She turned, finding herself face to face with MEC holding a small knife. He jolted a little when she looked at him, as though he'd been planning on sneaking up on her without her noticing. "It's you, isn't it."

She took a step back. He took a step closer, then another. He was backing her toward the wall.

"You don't have a gun, do you? If you did, you already would have used it."

"You're not going to get away with this," she said.

"I get away with a lot of things. But then, you know that, don't you."

Sara lunged at him, hitting him in the face and grabbing at his knife.

He yelped with pain. His free hand lifted to his face while the other struggled for the knife. Then he hopped back, pulling her with him, and punched her in the side. She grunted, but didn't let go of the knife.

"Put it down, Caleb." Glory stepped into sight from around the corner, gun first.

"I don't think I'm going to do that, officer," he said. "You know what I did; I'll get the death penalty anyway. Might as well take one of you down with me."

"You die later or die now. Your choice."

Sara took advantage of his momentary distraction. Raising her knee, she kicked him in the leg as hard as she could, twisting the knife out of his hand with the same motion. He doubled over, clutching at his injury, wincing.

"You know, Caleb," Glory said, "if I shoot you right now, there's not a jury in the world that would convict me." She glanced questioningly at Sara.

"Caleb Miller," Sara panted, "you're under arrest for the murders of Selena Bristol, Sarah Radu, Kylie Marshall, Nicole Faber, and Sandra Dwight. And yes, I'm the one who shot you."

He glared as she cuffed him. "I thought you were finally gone. I thought it was finally safe to go back to work."

Glory pulled him to his feet. "Mr. Miller, as long as there are people like us, the world will never be safe for people like you."

Sara smiled as they led him away. A serial killer had resisted the urge to murder for almost a decade because he was afraid of _her. _That was the best endorsement for being a CSI she'd ever heard.

* * *

It was a fresh, sunny morning when Grissom walked into Kaleid. The jewelry shop was empty except for Michael Ayala, who smiled at the CSI. "Dr. Grissom. Hello."

"Hi. I wanted to tell you that Karen Straley is pleading guilty. I think she really feels remorse for what she did."

"Good," Ayala said quietly. "Thank you. I'm not sure how Josh would feel about it, but thank you."

"I see you got the stolen jewelry back with no problem," he said, noticing that Ayala was polishing one of the rings they'd recovered from the pond.

"Yeah. I wanted to thank you for that, too. I don't know how long I'll stay afloat without Josh, but in the meantime I have a business to run."

"I'm sure you'll do fine. Have you sold the moissanite and zultanite ring yet?"

"No. If you'd like it, it's yours. The last piece Josh ever made...it does seem appropriate for the person who solved his murder to have it."

"We're not allowed to accept gifts. However, I would like to buy it, at its full price."

As he walked out of Kaleid minutes later, Grissom opened the small ring box and admired its contents. In the sunlight, the zultanite gems were bronze yellow, like a honeybee, and the princess-cut moissanite sparkled intensely. The ring reminded him of Sara.

He didn't know if he would ever see her again, but if he did, he would be ready.

* * *

One rainy day a short time later, Grissom arrived home from work. Even before he unlocked the door, Hank began barking.

"What is it, Hank?"

The dog broke away from him and ran into the house. In the living room, the barking stopped.

Grissom cautiously stepped inside. Hank was sitting on the sofa, being vigorously scratched.

"Sara..."

She looked up at him, smiling, then stood. Hank jumped off the couch when the attention stopped, his tail wagging.

"It's me," she said.

He exhaled. Before he knew it, she was in his arms. "Oh, Sara, I've missed you so much."

"I have so much to tell you."

"I can't believe you're back."

"I am back." She drew away without letting go of him, then looked into his eyes, smiling one of her starlight smiles. There were no shadows in her eyes, no trace of the sickness that had haunted her ever since the Miniature Killer. In fact, if anything she seemed more whole and untroubled than he had ever seen her before.

"You _are_ back, aren't you?"

"I want to go back to work, as a CSI, but only if I can work with you. The two things I love most are you and my job, and I don't want to choose between them, which is what it was like being on different shifts, only seeing you for a few minutes a day between work and sleep. We've both been offered jobs with the San Francisco lab, on the same shift. I don't care if I work there, or here, or somewhere else."

"I'll talk to Ecklie tomorrow, and see what I can do about getting you back on the nightshift. Otherwise, I wouldn't mind San Francisco. Were you there for the MEC case?"

"Yes. We got him."

"Good. I want to hear all about it."

"You will. But first..." She kissed him. How could she have been away from the man she loved for so long? They embraced again.

"I love you so much, Sara."

"I love you too. I'm never leaving you again, Gil. I promise." She gazed at him, smiling. "Now, where shall I begin?"

The End


End file.
